Echoes of birds chirping, the soft clouds over the faintest blue of the sky. The chills faintly sinking in.
Time can stand still, if you only remember the tree that glimmered silver yesterday that stands alone waiting for another day in that sun.
Dry leaves crunch under your feet in the long abandoned driveway. Overgrown and unkempt. The crumbling steps the relic of the past splendor.
Do others see or ignore the beauty?
Distant memories of a splendid hoopoe surfaces in the back.
One scared bird that flew at our sight. Taking its colors away leaving an imprint behind in our mind.
Days many may have passed but the image lingers, unsurpassed until its return, when: doesn’t really matter.
For knowing it was here and it was real gives hope of another sighting.
The same or some other the difference are many but few.
The wait becomes the game.